Laura Andersen - [Ann Boleyn 01]

by The Boleyn King

  Percy had kept talking, but Dominic hadn’t heard a word of it, for his mind had caught hold of that—the third time I’ve mistaken him for you. And he thought of a story that one of Renaud’s men had told him once, about a campaign in Italy and a daring move by Renaud to surprise the enemy.

  And all at once, Dominic had it—the unexpected, the twist that would throw Renaud off-balance and give England the edge in open battle. Renaud might claim no man had ever surprised him twice, but Dominic knew that with this plan, he could more than surprise Renaud.

  He could beat him.

  He answered William’s taunt with the same reply he’d given every time. “I want to wear my new colours in battle, not waste them in the tedium of attrition.”

  “Le Havre and Harfleur were battles.”

  “Over so quickly there wasn’t time to change tunics.”

  “Sieges are as much a part of war as battles.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re content sitting on this muddy plain waiting for a break in either weather or siege.”

  Indeed, William looked more each day like a warhorse that had been relegated to a farm. Dominic could almost see the pulse of his desire, the wish for action beating beneath his skin.

  “I’m not content. But there seem to be no viable options other than pulling back.”

  “There are always options,” Dominic answered. “One has only to recognize them.”

  With a quizzical expression, William waited.

  “All soldiers share the same dislike for sieges, whichever side of the wall they’re on. And the leaders of Rouen will not want an army camped inside indefinitely. They want open battle as much as we do. Let’s tempt them outside the walls to fight.”

  “You cannot give the French the advantage of numbers and expect to win,” Sussex said.

  “We can,” Dominic said, “if we have the advantage of choosing the ground. Move now, and we can pick our battlefield and make the French come to us.”

  “What are the benefits?” William asked, prudent as a king should be even when prudence is against every instinct.

  “The unexpected will always give the advantage of surprise.”

  “Northumberland?”

  The duke shook his head. “Surprise or not, we cannot escape the fact that in head-to-head battle, our army will be outnumbered.”

  “Which is why,” Dominic said promptly, “I have one more surprise in store. What if Renaud looks to our line on the field and sees the colours of all our leaders arrayed against him—Northumberland, Sussex, Exeter … and the king?”

  Sussex snorted, and Northumberland narrowed his gaze as he said, “Put the king in the line? That’s madly dangerous.”

  “It will bring out the French.”

  “Of course it will!” Sussex exploded. “A chance to capture the king? Do you know what that ransom would cost England? And what if he’s hurt or—”

  “That’s enough,” William said. “There’s more to this, Dom, isn’t there? Something to do with your previously unworn colours as Exeter.” William leaned forward with a gleam in his eye. “What are you thinking?”

  Dominic smiled. And then he told them the outlines of the story Renaud’s lieutenant had shared months ago. Of a battle against the Italians, when Renaud’s men were tired of a long siege and it seemed retreat was the only option. Renaud had created another option, using a decoy dressed as himself to lead his army away while he and a small force of handpicked men slipped into the Italian city in plain clothes. Renaud’s “retreating” army circled back around in the night and attacked from without at the same time Renaud and his force set off explosions from within. The surprise of sabotage, coupled with the surprise of Renaud being where no one had expected him to be, turned the tide, and the French won back the city.

  Northumberland eyed him with a glimmer of hope that reminded Dominic of just how clever a commander John Dudley was. “But you are not counseling a retreat and sabotage; you want to advance openly, let them know we’re coming.”

  “I want them to know you are coming,” Dominic said. “You, Sussex, the king—and, yes, myself. Dressed in the gold I have always worn in tournament or battle. Renaud will count the colours before him and never think to look behind.”

  Slowly Northumberland smiled and nodded. “Unconventional.”

  Sussex was less impressed. “Some might call it cheating.”

  “Not cheating,” William answered. “Winning.” He looked straight at Dominic, eyes glinting in a manner that made the latter unaccountably nervous, and said, “It’s perfect, except for one thing—I will command the covert force that comes in behind.”

  The tent was silent, save for the sound of rain hitting the sodden fabric above. I should have seen this coming, Dominic thought. He is aching to prove himself. How the hell do I tell him no?

  Because of course William could not do this—and Dominic would have to tell him so. No one else wanted that task. As Sussex and Northumberland exited the tent, Dominic thought he saw sympathy in the duke’s eyes.

  Dominic wasted no time in evasion, and he emphasized his seriousness with formality. “Your Majesty, you cannot lead this force. You must take the field here, surrounded by the full weight of your army.”

  He could almost have given William’s answer, word for clipped word. “I decide what I can and cannot do. Let Henri sit safely at home—I do not ask my men to take risks I will not.”

  “Which is why I allow you to take the field at all—but this I will not allow. Might I remind you of what happened to the last English king who charged an enemy headlong? Surely a Tudor remembers Bosworth Field. Richard made a brave end, but an end nonetheless. Your grandfather, on the other hand, was wise enough to hang back, and he ended the day as king.”

  William’s cheeks were flushed with temper, and his voice slipped a little. “Why not tell me the truth, Dom? You don’t want me leading the covert force because you don’t think I can do it. At the least, not as well as you can.”

  “You can’t,” Dominic said simply. “I am the last man in the world to underestimate you, Will, but this situation requires experience. We cannot afford to fail. You need me to do this—and I need you to do as I ask. Stay here. Stand with Northumberland and Dudley. Be the symbol that will draw out the French. And trust me to do the rest.”

  Enthusiastic acceptance was too much to hope for, but William did manage to nod and even clasp Dominic’s hand in his. “If you fail, I’ll never let you forget it,” he warned.

  “Fair enough.”

  18 August 1554

  Hever Castle

  We arrived after nine o’clock last night and found the queen sleeping. I stood quietly nearby while the physician asked questions of her household. He pronounced himself satisfied with what they had done and did not seem inclined to wake her.

  It was her eyesight that betrayed her. Since her vision has darkened, Her Majesty has taken to descending stairs with even more studied grace than normal, one hand always trailing lightly along a balustrade or against a wall to steady her. At last, her precautions failed. A misplaced step, a momentary loss of balance—the briefest unsurety was all it took to send her tumbling to the bottom of the stairs.

  It is her head that is the great concern, for according to her attendants, she struck the stone floor quite sharply. But the local surgeon who saw her first assured us there was no break in the skull. Other than a quite natural headache, she complained of no pain. The royal physician will see her again this morning when she wakes. I sat with her through the night, and she seemed to sleep peacefully enough. I shall hope for encouraging news to send Elizabeth later today.

  23 August 1554

  Hever Castle

  The queen is not progressing as we had hoped. After our first morning here, when she seemed no more than irritable and uncomfortable, Her Majesty’s condition has declined. She has been restless and feverish, and the least light brings on blinding pain in her head. The physician seems of little use—but perhaps that is
only my fear speaking. I am certain he is doing all he can. If not for the sake of the queen, then for his own reputation at least.

  I have been with her nearly every waking hour and for much of the nights. She is worse during the day, for the heat of summer and the necessity of keeping her room dark and shuttered does nothing to ease her fever. We keep her cool as best we may, with wet cloths and even damp bed linens, trying to reduce her temperature.

  At night we can throw open the shutters and allow the cool air to circulate in the room. Within an hour or so of sunset last night, Her Majesty began to breathe more easily and the hectic flush in her cheeks cooled. And then it was that she began to talk.

  I have never heard the queen speak so candidly. She told me stories of her childhood here at Hever, of the games she and her brother would devise, with their sister, Mary, never quite able to keep up. It gave me pause to hear Lord Rochford spoken of with such casual warmth.

  She spoke also of her marriage, occasionally in terms that threatened to make me blush. Her Majesty does not mince words, either in praise or in condemnation. Her marriage could never have been serene, but hearing her talk, I wager she found more pleasure in arguments with Henry than she ever would have found in a placid existence with a less dominant husband.

  I shall give it another day before I write again to Elizabeth.

  24 August 1554

  Hever Castle

  I have sent a messenger for Elizabeth, requesting that she come as soon as possible. Her Majesty refuses all food, and only laudanum eases her enough that she can sleep—and even drugged, she twitches and moans.

  But it is her mind that worries me. She did not know me this morning. She called me Marie, thinking I was my mother. It was only for a few minutes, but it was unnerving to have the queen speak to me so familiarly, calling me “chérie” and “pet” and asking me what I thought of the latest letter from Henry. I hardly know what I said in return, but eventually her eyes cleared and she came back to the present. I almost wish she hadn’t, for the present meant also a return of pain. The physician dares not increase her laudanum, for fear of putting her into a sleep from which she will not wake. He claims he has done all he can. Perhaps Elizabeth can motivate him to something new.

  26 August 1554

  Hever Castle

  Elizabeth arrived after dark the day after I sent my message. Since then, she has alternated between sitting with her mother and doing what government business is necessary. I do not believe she has slept at all.

  Though we have kept the castle itself as empty as possible, the outbuildings and surrounding farms are crawling with government functionaries. At least we have been able to keep out the useless members of court, who could serve no purpose but to be in the way.

  The queen is no better, but she is also no worse. There are hours when my heart sinks, afraid of what I will not name, even to myself. But there are also long periods when she is lucid and somewhat eased in body. The physician has bled her and dosed her until he can do no more. It is a matter of time alone, he says. Until she is better, Elizabeth adds. She will believe no less.

  We have not written to William, not yet.

  Soon we may have to.

  28 August 1554

  Hever Castle

  We have dispatched a rider to Dover with a letter for William.

  Though she appeared composed as she wrote it, Elizabeth’s elegant script was less tidy than normal, and the postscript was barely readable: “Do not delay.”

  “Marie?”

  Minuette stirred instantly at the sound of the queen’s voice. She had learnt to doze easily on a pallet these last nights, as she stayed with Anne almost constantly. Elizabeth she had sent to bed with her own dose of laudanum tonight, and though Lord Rochford had arrived two days ago, he could not bear to stay long in the sickroom. Minuette was the chief mainstay, with Carrie and two of the queen’s women doing most of the heavy nursing.

  “Marie? Are you here?”

  “I’m here, my lady.” The lie came easily to Minuette, as did the use of Anne’s long-outdated title. The queen spent a lot of time wandering in the past, and Minuette did whatever she could to let her stay there.

  She leaned forward in the chair she kept next to Anne’s bed until the queen’s fingers closed around her wrist and her head turned in the direction of her voice. “Don’t leave me tonight, Marie. You can’t leave me. The blood … I’ve been bleeding since yesterday. Since the moment of Catherine’s internment—”

  She gave a twisted laugh that ended in a spasm of pain. Even that kept her firmly in the past. “If I lose this child—the very month of her death—the people will say it is God’s will. That it is God himself denying me. Denying my marriage. They will turn Henry from me. His eye wanders … does he think I cannot see it? I know him. If I lose this child …”

  “You will not,” Minuette said firmly, with all the assurance of present truth. “You will recover and you will give the king a healthy boy. England will love him and love you for his sake. You will have done what no one else could do. You will see your son crowned king and you will marvel at the goodness of the Lord.”

  Anne gave a shuddering breath. “You will stay with me until the end?”

  “I will stay.”

  “No,” Anne said sharply. “No, I remember now. You are already gone, Marie. You are bound to your Henry. You tried not to be—you married your nice Jonathan—but in the end …”

  Minuette’s head, already dizzy with lack of sleep, whirled with Anne’s words. Your Henry? What did that mean? Her mother had married Jonathan Wyatt, Minuette’s father, and then he died and she married Howard.

  “Your Henry,” Anne murmured. “I named him that. Because I know what it is to love a dangerous man. A man you should avoid. A man you love and hate in the same breath. A man you cannot do without as much as you sometimes want to.”

  “Stephen Howard.”

  Minuette only knew she’d spoken aloud when Anne agreed. “Howard, yes. Go to your Henry. Genevieve will be safe at court. Between us, we will keep her happy and away from the attention of dangerous men.”

  The queen patted her hand, then slipped back into an uneasy sleep. Minuette stayed in the chair, wide-awake and finding it hard to swallow. Your Henry—was that how her mother had felt about Stephen Howard? If anyone would know, it seemed that the queen would. But she was not the only one. There was Carrie, silent at the end of the bed, who had heard it all. Who had known her mother with both of her husbands.

  Carrie must have sensed her mood, for she came on quiet feet to Minuette’s side and crouched down to eye level. “Don’t fret yourself tonight, miss. The dying do not always know what they are saying.”

  “Is she right? Did my mother love Howard?”

  “And if she did?” Carrie shook her head with pity. “Whatever she felt for him did not touch what she felt for your father. I saw her with both, remember? And I tell you true that she was never more at peace than when she was at Wynfield with your father and you.”

  Minuette nodded in acknowledgment and thanks, but still she did not sleep. In the hour just before dawn, the queen woke again, and this time she did not call for Marie.

  “Genevieve?”

  “I’m here, Your Majesty.”

  “Is William coming?”

  “Yes, he is coming.” I hope soon enough, she thought.

  A long series of shallow breaths, then the queen said, “I am glad you are here, Minuette.”

  Only much later did she realize that it was the first time the queen had ever called her by her pet name.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  WILLIAM SAT HIS horse at the top of a rise two miles west of Rouen, watching the French formations moving slowly, steadily toward him. He was a little forward of his own line here, but there was no hurry—the royal archers were between him and the enemy line, and it would be some time before the French could break a way through those deadly volleys. There were no better bowmen in the world than the Welsh. Be
sides, they were flanked by cannons.

  The weather was perfect—blue sky and a freshening breeze—and so was the terrain. Northumberland had chosen their battlefield well. The English held the high ground, such as it was, and the French were coming at them hemmed in by trees on one side and the Seine on the other. There was little room for artillery that wouldn’t cut down one’s own forces, and the low spot that the French were moving toward was still boggy from weeks of rain, enough to cause hesitation in both horses and men.

  William withdrew just as the archers were beginning to fit shaft to bow, running expert hands the length of their arrows and calmly leveling their aim. The master bowman stood behind, his eyes fixed to the line of mounted knights; when the French shifted from deliberation to speed would be the moment to loose.

  With his squire following near behind, William walked his horse the length of his own mounted line. Northumberland was in the center, leading the vanguard that would burst into motion as soon as the French managed to break through the archers. William’s personal forces were on the river side to the right, the most protected position of the day. He had argued long and loud about that but had given way in the end. He would not have done it for anyone but Dominic.

  He reached the far left flank and wheeled his horse round to make his way back. As he did so, he saluted Robert Dudley with a nod and a quick twitch of his lips. His eyes went from the borrowed plain gold tunic that Robert wore, deliberately flaunted, to the dark line of trees that cut off any sight of Rouen. He wished briefly that Dominic were next to him. Nothing had been harder than watching him set out with his men last night, having to trust that all would be well. Not, as everyone assumed, because William had wanted to lead the covert force himself. He had, but that was not why he had prayed twice as long as usual last night. It was not jealousy that had prompted his devotions—it was fear and a memory of the time his own willfulness had nearly cost Dominic his life.